


Mycroft's Tale

by Deleaf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Multi, POV Mycroft Holmes, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deleaf/pseuds/Deleaf
Summary: When John and Sherlock pass away, a lot of things happen.  Rosie is adopted.  Eurus goes silent.  Mycroft falls into a depression.  Then, months later, Rosie goes missing and Mycroft must take it upon himself, and some new friends, to retrieve his brother’s only daughter.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

When Sherlock and John passed away, Mycroft was heartbroken.

In fact, he was so heartbroken he wasted away. He stopped eating. He stopped working out. He didn’t do his job--whatever that was. It became apparent to him when Anthea came to his doorstep to inform him that there was a terrorist attack on Parliament. Two politicians were killed.

And he had no idea.

However, the peak of his grief was when he had to see the couple’s bodies on the autopsy slabs.

Up until that point he had been working under the assumption that this was just one of Sherlock’s tricks, but he could no longer deny it that morning.

They looked so peaceful there. Eyes shut as if still asleep. Their corpses were badly injured from the car that had struck them. Their fingers had matching wedding rings, and Mycroft realized bittersweetly that they had eloped. Perhaps in the thrill of a case closed. On their way back to London. They had come clean to each other and decided to start a new life right then and there.

At first, Mycroft thought this was evidence of foul play. Perhaps some crazed fan had crashed into them and forced the appearance of marriage as some twisted control issue.

But their certificate was real. The chapel had evidence of them visiting. And Mycroft had spent too many years watching them pining to not believe the tale.

As for the driver, he was a now-deceased drunk with no history of criminal behaviour.

Mycroft couldn’t even take revenge.

Upon this realisation, the now sole Holmes brother fell into a depression. It was perhaps no surprise that when Anthea came to tell him that Rosie had been put up for adoption, he did not take extra measures to ensure her safety. He merely observed that it would be a speedy process for the child. She was young, smart and pretty--no doubt she would find parents soon.

He was right, of course, but it hardly meant anything to him at the time.

Five months later, he was informed that Rosie had gone missing from her adopted parents.


	2. Chapter 1

Mycroft was in a deep slumber when Anthea shook him awake. “Hmph,” he murmured, still enraptured by the dream of him and Sherlock as children. A dream bathed in the kind of soft images befit of childhood. Much like Sherlock himself, it did not become the adult world.

Anthea stood tall in front of him. In her position to the floor lamp she was hardly more than a silhouette against his living room walls.

“Sleeping on your couch again, Mycroft?” Anthea scoffed. “You should really know better.”

“Perhaps it does not matter,” he responded, desolate. “What makes a bed a bed anyway if it's not just where one grows too tired to stay awake?”

Anthea sighed at this and crouched next to him. He could see her pursed lips in the glow of his incandescent bulb. “Have you reconsidered seeing someone about this? Bereavement is one thing, Mycroft, but this has gone on much too long. And I won’t be able to hold your parents off for much longer.” After a moment of hesitation, she placed her hand against his forehead. It was oddly intimate: the kind of gesture they didn’t used to share. He supposed he acted much less like a boss and more like a little boy these days. Professionalism can only hold for so long when one party acts like a toddler.

Mycroft didn’t meet her eyes. “Why have you come here Anthea? Surely I have not fallen so low that you merely seek to check on me?” He almost wished she had.

Anthea shook her head and Mycroft realized that her hair had not seen a wash in three days. It should have been obvious to him, regardless of the dry shampoo Anthea had tried to cover it up with. It was also quite unusual for his assistant. Mycroft sat up.

“It’s about Dr.Watson’s daughter,” she said softly.

“What about her?” Mycroft was concerned when Anthea failed to continue.

Anthea hesitated. “She’s missing,” she said simply.

“Missing?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “For how long?”

“Three days.” Anthea sat on the couch beside him, keeping her hands folded in her lap. “The police are stumped--predictably. There was no ransom. Her family says she simply disappeared while playing outside in the backyard. Which is strange because the play pen is gated. And she wasn’t one to wander off, at least according to her adoptive family.”

“How can they be a reliable source of information?” Mycroft said incredulously. “They’ve only had her for three months--then lost her!”

Anthea’s eyes left his. “Four, Mycroft. They’ve had her for four months.”

“Whatever.” he said, although he felt odd at his mistake. “They still don’t know her well enough to say she didn’t ‘wander off’.”

“That still leaves the question of how she got out. Or, rather, who took her.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” he snapped. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am not in the best condition.” It was the first time he truly acknowledged the grief, his reticence to even remotely contend with the outside world. It should have been liberating, but instead all he felt was the dull ache inside grow a little stronger.

Anthea set her jaw a little tighter. “Look, Lestrade made me promise to make you look it over. Just scribble some notes down in the margins. He’s not expecting much from you like this. No one is.” Mycroft could hear the bitterness in her voice as clear as day. Perhaps she felt irritated by her once competent boss becoming nothing but a slob. Perhaps she was concerned for the girl herself. After all, she looked after Rosie for the better part of the year while Mycroft’s people attempted to track down John’s next of kin and search for any family or friends who would be willing to take the child. When none could, Rosamund Watson was put into the system. Anthea was a highly trained agent, but she had a heart of gold underneath her cold exterior.

Oh,  _ Anthea _ .

Mycroft glanced at his assistant, who seemed surprisingly distraught. He couldn’t fail her any longer. “I’ll do more than that, “ he announced. “I’ll take the case.”


	3. Chapter 2

The report was not helpful, to say the least. It was filled with nearly identical crime scene photos and interview after interview of neighbours who knew next to nothing. But ultimately, although Mycroft was used to dealing with problems remotely, it was perhaps apt that he take a note from his brother and contend with legwork.

It didn’t help that Mycroft was not used to criminal cases. Not for the first time, he wished his brother was here. After a few hours of contemplating the case while Anthea disappeared to god-knows-where, he decided it was time to do the dreaded legwork. He stood up from his desk with a crack in his back and made his way to his wardrobe. After removing his clothes, he took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. He had lost weight since his brother passed. His stomach was strangely flat, but in a grotesque way dissimilar to what he worked for for years. His arms felt weak when he moved them. But what really got to him was the complete state of disrepair he was in. His hair was knotted and matted. His eyes held bags beneath them, despite the fact that he had slept for most of his days. Something between a beard and stubble lined his face. Perhaps he could follow Dr.Watson’s lead and grow a mustache, he thought almost giddily.

He jumped in the shower for five minutes and could almost imagine the water swirling silently into his drain carried all his incurred weakness away.

Almost.

Shaving was a difficult process. He trimmed most of the hair before taking the razor to it, but was still left with scratches.

He sighed and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Just doing this had been exhausting. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage to get Rosie home safely like this. But if nothing else he had to try. For Anthea. For Sherlock, who had loved the girl as his own.

Mycroft had never considered himself the sentimental type, had even scoffed at the idea in his earliest childhood days. It wasn’t until the last few years that he attempted to explore that realm--albeit with a fair number of hiccups. He held a relationship with Lady Smallwood for a few months before she ended it on peaceful terms. He spoke to some of his colleagues in more casual terms. He even considered seeing a therapist. Now that was all undone. He felt enormously closed off after his brother’s death. It was as if he had positioned himself back where he was five years ago. In truth he wasn’t sure if that was really a bad thing: it was caring for Sherlock that got him in this mess after all.

He wore a simple suit as always. His phone was safely tucked in his pocket. His socks held 80£ in case of emergencies. And his beloved umbrella was safely in his grasp. He couldn’t help but feel slightly better about himself. Of course, he was still miserable. But perhaps Rosie’s kidnapper was a low grade criminal. Someone he could take care of before returning to his house and his couch. Rosie would be safe. She would grow up a more normal child than any of the people who raised her. And Mycroft would never have to see her again.

Rosie had been adopted in July of that year. Her last name was changed from Watson to Roper. Her current residence was that of a modern townhouse which greeted Mycroft in all of its beige glory. The only thing that distinguished the home from the neighbouring houses was police tape on the gate to the garden and a collection of stone sculptures in the front yard. Mycroft could see their beauty, but thought some were too delicate to be in the same house as a small child.

Mr and Mrs.Roper, were likewise orthadox. Mycroft was not a spiritual man in any stretch of the imagination, but he could’ve sworn he caught sight of the Roper’s beige auras in that moment he stepped over the threshold to their home.

Yet, he saw beige everywhere, these days.

The one thing that stood out about the middle-aged couple was the fact that Mr.Roper was sat in a wheelchair. This was a fairly new development if the makeshift ramps were anything to go by.

“He broke his leg while travelling,” Mrs.Roper explained when Mycroft inquired.

He nodded. He couldn’t help but see this as proof of the enormous cruelty of the universe. Here was a boring, but lovely man who lost his daughter and became temporarily disabled in a very short time.

_ Don’t get sentimental _ , he scolded himself internally.  _ Remember Sherlock _ .

He straightened his spine, hoping to lightly intimidate Mrs.Roper. “So,” he announced. “The crime scene?”

The woman smiled. “Right this way.” She gestured towards the garden and Mycroft followed.

The backyard held a small section of grass and a large section for flowers and the same sort of statues Mycroft saw in the front. Rosies’s playpen remained next to undisturbed on the grass. Mycroft could not help but stare almost deliriously at the bright colours.

The garden looked almost undisturbed. The fence surrounding it was just as tall as Mycroft saw it in the photos and looked just as flimsy. He couldn’t imagine anyone climbing over it. The most likely explanation was that the intruder merely used the gate, despite the fact that the fence was facing a community path and would thus attract less attention from the neighbours. Mycroft walked over to the gate which exited onto the front garde after passing by the westward side of the house. It was a simple latch. Anyone could’ve unhooked it.

Mycroft sighed. He was considering talking to the neighbours when Mrs.Roper came up behind him. “They came in through the gate. That’s what the other detective said. Are you sure you’ll be able to find anything he didn’t?”

Mycroft could sense the suspicion in the woman’s voice and wondered if people always acted as such in a crime scene. Perhaps it was only because he introduced himself as working  _ with  _ the police instead of being one of them? He half wondered how Sherlock would have dealt with the situation.

He forced a smile. He didn’t want to speak to the neighbours if they were going to act like this. Nor did he wish to waste time if they were as clueless as the report suggested.

“Well,” he said diplomatically, ”Detective...ah”

“Michaels,” Mrs.Roper provided, looking irritated.

“Yes. Detective Michaels and I have very different styles. He is still looking at the case if you are concerned.”

Rosie’s adoptive mother nodded slowly. “Perhaps it would do you well to speak with someone with experience then?” she said sarcastically. Mycroft could see how her wearniness was manifesting as anger--but that didn’t mean she didn’t have a point.

“Perhaps, I will.”

  
  


Detective Michaels was a stuffy, short man whose breath came out hot and often. He made his way down the hallway in a surprising clip for someone his size. Mycroft supposed this was the detective in his natural state. He was a characterture of a man the politician could only imagine being here, working cases. The elder Holmes brother spoke in a formal, detached manner as the two men made their way down to Michael’s office in the police station.

“I understand your reticence in this manner--” Mycroft began.

“Who did you say gave you the file? A Grant Lestrow? A murder detective at any rate! Getting mixed up in a kidnapping case--he should bloody know his division! I’ll have to speak to his super--”

“That’s quite enough,” Mycroft said softly, yet with the authoritative tone he had years of practice at. “I am here. You have your orders. Follow them or your career will be over before you know it.”

The man scoffed. He had a type of pride about him one respected despite the fact that it was rooted in stupidity. “Bloody bureaucrats,” he murmured under his breath but took Mycroft to his office regardless.

His office was significantly smaller than Mycroft’s but similarly sparse. Detective Michaels had a choice of staring at his computer, the portrait of his family, or the corkboard detailing Rosie’s case. Red strings darted around pictures of neighbours and family members. Potential suspects were corked on with little green pins. But what really startled Mycroft was the picture of Rosie in the middle. He had skimmed past it when looking through the file, but here, all blown up, he couldn't help but stare at the child. She was three years old but could pass for younger. Her blue eyes had remained from infanthood and thus served as a more than adequate introduction to the rest of her face. It was round and obviously childish. Mostly though, Mycroft was surprised by the almost paternal twang he felt looking at her. He wasn’t immune to such things, he knew from the odd baby photo of one of his staff. However the strength of the emotion surprised him. He supposed it was due to the knowledge that the child had been precious to his own brother. He couldn’t help but imagine Sherlock smiling down at her in much the same way Mycroft had looked at his brother during the younger’s infanthood.

“Cute, isn’t she?” Michaels asked from his perch on the desk. “Don’t worry, that goes away with puberty.” The man laughed an uproar that seemed inappropriate given the circumstances.

“Quite,” Mycroft merely stated. “Now: what do you have so far?”

“Right, ah, so we interviewed Rosie’s parents--the Ropers--and her teachers, and no one seemed to think she would wander off. Although she wasn’t at preschool for a few days--stuck with a bad cold, I remember what my kids were like at that age. We also interviewed the neighbours and they say they didn’t hear or see anything. The Davidsons--that’s one of the neighbour families--just finished renovations the day before and had decided to have a bit of a barbeque to celebrate. Whole bunch of people right next door yet no one heard or saw anything. This makes us think it's a family dispute.” He puffed up his chest a bit. “Y’know that’s a lot more common than you’d think, hell--”

“That’s enough,” Mycroft raised his hand to silence the detective. “Rosie was adopted four months ago. I sincerely doubt anyone within her current family unit would get so attached so soon.”

“Then maybe someone from before she got adopted,” the man insisted. “Look, if someone doesn’t make any sort of struggle--any sort of scene--they know the person they left with. I’m telling you.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed. “But I don’t see who. No one seemed to be able to take care of the child. Why would they kidnap her? Unless...”

“Unless what?” the detective leaned forward in his seat.

“John has a sister. She’s struggled with alcoholism off and on, I’m given to understand that was why she wasn’t given custody. Yet I know she’s met Rosie a number of times.”

Michaels raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a lead.”

“Quite.”

  
  


Harriet Watson lived in a scrap of flat at the corner of two busy intersections. There was, however, a small tree that had made a home beside a decrepit bench that seemed to shiver and sigh in the fall breeze. The woman was making her way back from the grocery shop around the corner when two men in suits approached her.

Mycroft Holmes, the tallest of the three, announced his presence with his usual adroitness, or so he perceived. “Ms.Watson, we are here to ask you about your niece.” That did not seem to get a response from his in-law, so he tried again, “We trust you know of the circumstances?”

Ms.Watson frowned at him, the sort of frown one would not mistake for simple bemusement in the lightest of days. “First, call me Harry. Second--what’s this about Rosie?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “It’s been all over the news.”

Harry shifted her bags. “Well, I’ve been busy.”

Ah. Mycroft had hoped Harry would be sober enough to reason with, but if she had not heard about her niece then she was either drinking too much not to notice both current events and notifications from family and friends, or she was the one who took Rosie.

Mycroft hoped it was the latter, because outside of a more dangerous criminal, he couldn’t imagine anyone who would take the girl.

“So, what’s my niece been up to, huh? Universe decide to fuck her over more than it already has?”

“Rosamund has gone missing,” Mycroft explained. “We were hoping you could provide us with some insight as to where she went and with whom?”

Harry paused at her already slow pace. “Meaning, you want to know if I took her,” she scowled.

“Yep,” Michaels said simply. “And quite frankly, we’re not going to trust you if you say you didn’t. We’re just going to search your flat, your car and whatever else we can find.”

Harry seemed slightly amused by the man’s candor. “Sure,” she said. “Whatever. Just find my niece.”

  
  


Harry’s niece was not in Harry’s flat. That had checked the rest of the building just to be sure, no doubt complicating Harry’s relationships with her neighbours. They were just about to search Harry’s car when Harry mentioned a crucial detail.

“You’re lucky you caught me. I was just in rehab two days ago.” Harry was bent over three mugs; despite the circumstances she felt it necessary to make them some tea.

Mycroft stood straighter. “That’s one detail you neglected,” Mycroft said irritably.

Harry blinked. “Well, I’m not stupid. I know I must be a pretty good suspect. I figured the kidnapping happened recently.”

“Normally, a good assumption,” Mycroft allowed. “However, it took awhile for the case to find me. It was in the hands of idiots until that point, you see.”

“You don’t say,” Harry said dryly. She cleared her throat and lifted the mugs. “Well. Who wants tea?”

It struck Mycroft at that moment how similar she was to John. Both in temperament and in idiosyncrasies.

“No matter how much  _ this  _ idiot wants some”--Michaels shot a glare at Mycroft--”we really shouldn’t until we check out your rehab story.”

Harry chuckled. “You think I’m going to poison you or something?”

“Just regulation.” The detective grinned at her with the sort of smile only the truly charismatic could master. Mycroft couldn't help but think he’d make a great cult leader.

“Right. Well, I went to the Peter-Robertson Institute. I can give you their number if you wish?” Harry put two of the mugs back in the cupboard and filled hers with tea.

“That would be wonderful,” Michaels said.

Harry shuffled through a messy stack of paperwork on a table in the lounge. “I wasn’t going to go,” she said, “but my girlfriend thought I should. And who are we to say no to the ones we love?” She looked up at us with a grin, and the bureaucrat thought it strange, to divulge in such a conversation with near strangers.

Michaels, however, was unperturbed. “Oh yes. What is life without love?”

Harry smiled. “Which is exactly why I need you to find my niece,” she handed him a pamphlet for Harry’s rehabilitation centre. It looked official, but Mycroft would have his people check it out.

Mycroft gazed at the woman and thought about how true her words were. Did she truly love her niece, despite hardly knowing her. Perhaps she loved Rosie merely because she was John’s? Because she had his genetic material or because John loved his daughter so Harry needed to love her as well?

Did  _ he  _ love Rosie, just because she was Sherlock’s?

The detective and the politician left the flat into the cold autumn air. The sun was setting now. Mycroft thought perhaps they should stay for the night, but wasn’t sure if he could truly let the case rest so easily. He sighed and elected to merely let the detective drive them back to the station. For the first time in years, he slept in a moving car. The lights of the city crept around them like stars dancing on the planet itself.

Mycroft was exhausted.


	4. Chapter 3

There was really only one option. If Rosamund Roper was not taken by someone she knew, she was taken by some sort of criminal who knew how to do things quietly. Perhaps they used a toxic gas. Perhaps they knew how to threaten her in a way she could understand and that wouldn’t make her cry too loudly.

That wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Unfortunately, that left a lot of people. His, Sherlock and John’s, and even Mary’s career lead to the sort of enemies one didn’t wish to make.

Perhaps it wasn’t even personal: just someone who wanted to traffic her for whatever purpose.

It could be anyone, he thought mournfully. Hell, it could be Eurus, curious about Sherlock’s daughter in lieu of the man himself.

_ Eurus _ . He sat straight up in the desk chair in Michael’s office. That was a thought, wasn’t it? Eurus might be the cause of the situation, but perhaps more likely--if Mycroft’s security was as good as he thought--she could be a solution. Perhaps she would be interested enough in the child to bring her to safety. It would be tricky, for sure. And it might not work, but…

Mycroft gazed at the image of little Watson on the corkboard. He felt that same undefinable, flawed twang. The one that said he’d do anything for the girl. She could be dead by now, he realized. The thought was one he’d been pushing down for a while now.

He would do it. For her.

Michaels was snoring peacefully in the chair beside him so Mycroft simply pulled out his mobile and strode into the men’s room. Luckily there was no one there.

Flicking his phone open, his fingers leaped across the screen until they encountered Anthea’s name: the first on his list of speed dials.

She answered on the third ring, which was strange for her but she was presumably working the case from another end; he would have to ask for any details later.

“Hello,” she said, as proper and detached as ever. The familiarity of it warmed Mycroft’s heart.

“Hi,” he said in the same dispassionate tone. “I’m going to have to ask you for a flight to Sherrinford. I need to speak with my sister.”

There was a hesitation on her part. Mycroft could hear another woman’s voice on the other end. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes, quite. Now that we know she is not with Harry, the chances of her being with a dangerous criminal are quite high. I need to take the chance.”

“Right, of course. I’ll make the arrangements shortly.”

“Thank you,” he hung up the phone and made his way back to the office. Perhaps he owed it to Michaels to say goodbye.

When he made his way back, Michaels was awake. ‘I fear I will make the next leg of the journey alone,” he said diplomatically.

“What?” the detective cried out. “You can’t be serious! I know you’re a real smart guy, but you have no experience with this stuff!”

Mycroft was somewhat alarmed by the man’s lack of dissembling. But more so that he made a good point for once. “I will call you if I need you,” he promised.

The detective looked more wounded than anything. “Call me if you find her too. And I’ll do the same.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re going to keep working the case?”

“Of course! I don’t do this job because I love it; I do it because I know what it’s like to lose a loved one--we’ll find her, don’t worry.”

Mycroft gave him a half-smile.

_ Did he love Rosie? Could he? _

Mycroft’s mind was spinning.

  
  


The helicopter ride was long but peaceful. As they neared Sherrinford, Mycroft couldn’t help but be awed by its beauty. In spite of all the awful people it housed, the island itself was almost pristine. As it slowly came into view and the helicopter lowered itself, Mycroft was once again amazed at how all the little rocks and trees were not in fact part of a miniature model, but rather fully sized creations. As they descended and their perspective changed, they were no longer giants but people as small as mice and just as important.

The helicopter landed with a signature swoosh of air. The bureaucrat could make out a few faculty staff streaming out of the building to greet them.

“Greetings,” Mycroft said as the propellers quieted and the administrator approached.

She smiled at him and shook his hand. “Mr.Holmes. Always a pleasure.”

Mycroft attempted to deduce her right there. Ms.Fort’s lips were coated in the same vinaceous lipstick he recognized. Her eyeshadow the same brown. But she seemed to have a few more wrinkles than when he last saw her. Her blouse was slightly wrinkled and the pen in her breast pocket chewed upon.

Mycroft frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyebrows did a slight leap, as they did whenever he made an obvious deduction in her company. “Yes, well, you’ll see I suppose. It’s your sister...she’s gone silent again.”

Mycroft’s frown deepened. That certainly affected his plans. He couldn’t very well get information out of Eurus if she wouldn’t speak to him. “There’s more though, isn’t there? You wouldn’t be this worried about that.”

The administrator nodded and they made their way to the building. “You see, she seems to have fallen into a depression. It started after we received news of your brother’s passing. It seems strange to empathize with a psychopath, but Eurus...well, either for your brother or for what he represents...she mourns.”

They walked down a set of stairs at a fast pace. And Mycroft found himself grateful for Ms.Fort; despite his gifts in the languages, spatial reasoning was never his forte. He and Sherlock always used different gears academically and took different roads in life.

Ms.Fort smiled sadly at him as they reached the door to Eurus’ cell. “Good luck.” She walked away, and Mycroft was once again alone.

He straightened his back and marched in.

  
  


Eurus was sat on her bed facing the wall only a metre in front of her. Mycroft was surprised to see the drying trails of tears on her pale face.

He stopped a metre from the glass, knowing full well the dangers of his sister.

“You’ve heard of Rosamund I assume? She’s gone missing.”

His sister didn’t react to this.

“I need your help.”

She sat there.

“I’ve brought the file,” the politician stepped forward and placed it into the slot they gave her food and presents through.

Eurus didn’t react.

“Very well then,” the eldest Holmes walked back towards the door but hesitated at the entrance. “He loved you, you know. Or at least he tried. I’m sorry for your loss.” Mycroft could feel the words slip through his mouth. It didn’t make sense to say. He doubted it would make a difference. But it made him feel a little lighter, so Eurus would just have to deal with it.

He had just turned back towards the door when Eurus’ voice startled him. “Are you religious, Mycroft?”

He frowned at her. “No.”

“I am.” Eurus smiled as if she was not just crying earlier. “There’s not much else to do here.”

“What do you believe in?” Mycroft had to keep her going if he was going to have any hope of finding Rosie.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” Eurus laughed in a clear, almost childish, manner.

“Perhaps you should figure that out,” he suggested.

“Why? Whatever god there is is going to hate me anyway,” Eurus smiled at him brightly.

_ Hopefully _ , Mycroft thought.

“You could do something about that. Help me with this case.”

She cocked her head to the side. As petulant as a toddler she announced, “No.”

Mycroft heaved a deep breath. He recalled all the sleepless nights and nightmarish mornings following Sherlock’s death. And now this woman, this  _ thing _ was going to keep him from finding one of the only scraps of his brother he had left? No. That was unacceptable. Suddenly, without warning, he felt himself snap.

He stepped closer to the glass. “How dare you call yourself a human being,” he rumbled. “How dare you--you  _ fucking _ meatsack. You are  _ nothing _ in this world, you know that? When you die no one will mourn you. They will mourn the person they thought you  _ were _ . You are nothing. Fuck. You.” His voice had grown loud. His eyes wide and eyebrows bunched.

“Interesting,” Eurus said softly. “I always thought Sherlock was the emotional one. You’ve been holding out from me.”

Mycroft growled and slammed his fist against the glass. It shook, but didn’t break.

Eurus smiled and strode over to where the file sat. She flipped through it causally. “You’re wrong,” she said nonchalantly.

Mycroft controlled his breathing. “What exactly did we miss?”

Eurus tutted. “Come now, brother mine. What assumptions have you made? What are the fallacies in the logic you’ve been using?”

Mycroft swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Eurus looked disappointed. “The child wasn’t taken four days ago. She was taken two days before that. The parents lied.”

Mycroft took a step back. “Why? I haven’t been as thorough as I should have been, but I know Anthea checked for any connections--”

“Oh, don’t be dull. No, they simply needed the money. The husband incurred a rather crippling injury while travelling and then the debt that came with it.”

Mycroft stared at her. “They sold their own child.”

Eurus hummed. “Now you just have to figure out who to.”

“Thank you,” he said genuinely. She could be lying, but it was the only lead they had.

“No problem,” she lifted her violin to her chin. “It’s always nice to have a few of you emotional sort around. Helps balance me out. I do need a replacement for Sherlock.”

“That’s not why you like him,” Mycroft stated. “You just liked having someone around who knew who you are--more than our parents ever did anyway--and still loved you. And you know you’ll never get that again.”

Eurus didn’t answer. She merely raised her bow and started to play.


	5. Chapter 4

It didn’t take them long to track the payment down. What was surprising was that it led back to Mycroft’s own account.

“Huh,” the bureaucrat grunted. “They must have used some sort of encryption..”

Michaels had grown quiet beside him. “There’s a simpler explanation.”

Mycroft stared at him. “You think  _ I  _ did this?”

Michaels held his hands up in surrender. “Or someone with your card! You're the one who said we shouldn’t keep making assumptions. So. Is there anyone who can access your account and who has a reason to take the girl.”

“No. the only person besides myself who can access my account is--”

Anthea.

Oh.  _ Anthea.  _

Mycroft took a shuddering breath. He remembered Anthea’s distraught face when she gave him the case.  _ She wasn’t worried that we wouldn’t find Rosie _ , he realized.  _ She was worried we would. _

Suddenly it all clicked together. It was Anthea who had taken care of Rosie before she had found a home. Anthea whose career had made it difficult for her to have children until Mycroft shut down and left her with nothing to do but ensure he was still breathing. Anthea who held the skill set and his faith in her to do what she thought she needed.

“What is it?” Michaels asked. “Who did it?”

“No one,” Mycroft said with fake confidence.

The detective clearly didn’t believe him. “I’ll find out, you know. It won’t be difficult to see who uses that card--who you’ve hired.”

Mycoft glared down at him with all the superiority complex he could muster. “If you do, I will end everything you hold dear. You have a family. Think about them.”

Michaels was distraught. “Why are you doing this? Why protect someone who would do such a thing.”

Mycroft’s hand curled around his umbrella. “Because we all do strange things for those we love.” He left the office without looking back.

  
  


He had not been to Anthea’s residence in years. Yet, he could tell the grass had grown longer then she’d normally let it. He could see the hasty parking job in the driveway and the crooked knocker.

He strode up to the door and rang the doorbell. He needed to do this with as much dignity given to Anthea as possible.

She held open the door just a crack. She wasn’t surprised to see him, that much was clear. Just disappointed.

She lowered her gaze to his shoes and didn’t say anything.

“I know,” Mycroft said simply, although for the life of him he couldn’t tell if he meant what she did or why she did it.

She swallowed and nodded. She let him in and he did so quietly.

There, on the sofa watching cartoons, was Rosamund Roper.

“I took care of her,” his assistant said. “I’d never harm her.”

“I know,” Mycroft said again.

Anthea nodded silently.

“What I don’t know is how you managed to pull it off. I know I was...out of it, but was it really that easy?”

“She had help,” said a voice from the hallway. And there, standing in the doorway, was Mary Watson. Her hair was the colour of coffee beans and was shaved on one side. She wore yoga pants and a shirt from a band he’s never heard of. Yet it was her.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Mary?”

She smiled and came forward. “Yep. Though I go by Sarah now.”

Her accent was faintly Irish, no doubt just another part of this false identity.

“You’ve changed,” he managed.

Mary frowned. “You too.”

“Why did you do it?” Mycroft’s world was out of control.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Mary nodded. “I faked my death because it was the right thing to do, and I was tired of putting everyone else in harm's way. As for the kidnapping? Some people are out there hunting down my daughter. I did what any reasonable mother would do: I put her in her care of a trained ex-MI6 agent.”

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella. “Because you couldn’t take care of her yourself. It would make her a target more than she already is.”

Mary nodded.

“Then I have some bad news,” Mycroft stated. “I have reason to believe your little scheme was discovered. I threatened him, but I doubt it will stop the detective in charge of the investigation from seeing this through.”

They both looked at him in alarm.

“Are you sure?” Mary looked over at her daughter.

“I think so. But I have a plan. I’ll take care of Rosie. My house is more secure than most of Parliament. And I sincerely doubt any judge will think two parents who sold their daughter are fit for the job. As for you,” he looked over at Anthea. “I’ll find the best lawyer I can.”

Anthea nodded. She looked sad.

Mary was satisfied, however. “Good. If all goes to plan, I hope to never see either of you ever again.”

Mycroft smiled at that. “Sounds good.”

Mary nodded. She spared a moment to stare at her daughter wistfully then walked out the back door. In an instant she was gone.

Mycroft looked back at Anthea who was standing as straight as a rod and looking at Rosie. He realized he had never seen her like this. She was far less like his cold as the arctic assistant and more like his own mother And there was something in her eyes--

In that moment, Michaels burst in the door. For all Mycroft had thought the man stupid, the detective was able to examine the scene fairly quickly.

Mycroft turned to Anthea, but spoke to Michaels. “She’s the one who took the girl, as I’m sure you know. She has agreed to comply.”

Michaels raised his brow. “Oh, really? And you just came over here to get her to agree to this, huh?” His voice was as angry as it had been back in his office.

“Yes,” Anthea said simply. “But I’ve changed my mind.”

Mycroft could only raise his eyebrows as Anthea landed a punch to his face. He fell backwards and was met with shag carpet and blobs of colour dancing across his vision.

He dimly heard a gunshot and Rosie crying. When his vision came to, he saw Michaels rocking the child back and forth as some young officer tended to Anthea’s wound. Mycroft’s assistant was bleeding profusely from her side, undoubtedly from where the detective had shot her.

Mycroft gulped and crawled over to her despite the pounding in his head.

“Anthea!” he cried upon seeing her face. She had tracks of tears down her cheeks.

“I should have adopted her when I had the chance,” she said in a low whine. “But I was too scared.”

Mycroft swatted away the officer, who was trying to keep him back. After a moment of hesitation, he placed his hand against her forehead in much the same manner she had done once for him--centuries ago in the midst of his depression.

“I acted so irrationally, I know,” she coughed, “but I was just so tired of being alone.” Her eyes met his. They were hazy and wet with tears. His vision was inconsistent and his head hurt. Yet he saw the desperation in her face as clear as day.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

She smiled and her eyes drifted away from his. Her body shuddered and fell still. Mycroft realized rather dispassionately that his beloved assistent had died.

He stood shakely and glanced at the officer who had paused in his ministrations to Anthea’s side as Mycroft stood. The man was oddly still. Perhaps this was his first death on the job, Mycroft wondered absently.

He stared at Michaels. “I will adopt the child.” he said simply and walked out the door; in spite of his blood stained clothes and potential concussion, he needed  _ air _ .

The area outside the house was oddly peaceful. Lights flashed on the police cars, but this was the only thing interrupting the simple suburban scene. That, and himself.

Mycroft’s mind shifted rapidly. His thoughts seemed to layer on top of one another, yet there was some clarity in all the noise.

He pulled out his cell phone. It felt oddly familiar. He rang up his lawyer--a man he had not spoken to since minimally dealing with his brother’s estate.

“Rosamund Roper,” he said without further ado. “I need her in my custody. Permanently.”

“Of course,” his lawyer said. “It will be done.”

Mycroft hung up and looked absently down the road. The houses each looked slightly different, but fit together in the most saccharine of manners. In the distance, millions of miles away, the sun shone brightly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
